Death or Liberty
by bibliosaurus-rex
Summary: Part of a History project I did; a retelling of the events of Hamilton's life from September 1776 to around August 1777. I might write more if thee mood takes me, but for now this is all there is.
1. The Battle of the Harlem Heights

September 16th, 1776 was a bleak day to say the least. Early fall drizzle sifted its way down from the clouds, turning dirt to mud beneath the scruffy boots of a volunteer militia soldier as he stood on watch beside his cannon overlooking Hollow's Way. Alexander Hamilton shivered in the chill breeze as scoured the landscape. Somewhere, beyond the thin line of trees at the foot of the hill, the British were advancing. He scowled at the invisible redcoats. They probably felt at home in this weather.

The Hearts of Oak- the company Hamilton had joined- had been at Harlem Heights for less than twenty-four hours and already Hamilton hated the place. It was drab and dreary. The Hudson River was a steel grey backdrop for miles of water-logged farmland. He felt depressed, downtrodden by the rain and the dull landscape. He'd joined the revolution to fight for glory and freedom, and this muddy field seemed far from the excitement of battle that he had imagined. He'd pictured huge swathes of cavalry charging quivering British troops, not huddles of volunteers camping in waterlogged farmland.

Musket fire crackled across the field, splintering the quiet. A flock of birds swirled into the sky, cawing madly. Hamilton's whole body went tense. He couldn't see any redcoats amongst the far trees, but he was certain that they would be there. Washington's army had been fleeing New York when Hearts of Oak had joined them; the British Navy had cost the Americans almost two and a half thousand men, and now royalist troops were pursuing Washington along the Hudson River. There was no telling how many English soldiers were concealed by those trees.

Hamilton began to pick out figures weaving amongst the trees. The last of a retreating scout party, holding out against the infantry. He watched as soldiers knelt in the mud, firing blindly through the freezing rain. He saw a man arch in pain as he was shot in the back. Another keeled over suddenly, gore spilling from the front of his jacket. The man standing at the cannon beside Hamilton cursed quietly.

The snaps of musket fire filled Hamilton's ears. Tramping, American soldiers were advancing towards the trees. Blocks of men, all firing their muskets in the arranged order. From what Hamilton could see of the English forces, the British were outnumbered. But numbers weren't anything in this war, and Hamilton watched helplessly as whole squadrons fell. What the British light infantry lacked in numbers, they made up for in the fact that they were not an ill-equipped rabble. Glorious cause or no, Hamilton could see the amateurism in the Americans as they stumbled forward. Orders were bellowed, but below the gunfire they had little effect. Listless and disorganised, the Americans laboured on.

The British were retreating. Orders drifted through the deafening sounds. Suddenly everything was upheaved as American soldiers trudged after them. Hearts of Oak were instructed to move, and Hamilton's heels sank into soft mud as he heaved his squad's cannon over the crest of the hill and down towards Hollow's Way.

The thin wheels of the cannon ploughed sludge onto Hamilton's boots as he pushed it forwards. One of the squad members wiped sweat from his brow with his cap. Gunfire echoed across Hollow's Way as infantry fired on the retreating British. The tramping of boots as they advanced was unruly and ominous.

Trees rose up either side of the Americans as they pursued the British to Buckwheat field. Crackling sounds of battle stung Hamilton's ears. The infantry- far ahead- had encountered more royalist troops. Reinforcements, if they were unlucky. Hamilton hauled the canon on, rain slicking the back of his neck.

A broiling mass of British infantry greeted the Americans in Buckwheat field. Men fresh from New York, armed and efficient. There was no turning back now. Hamilton loaded the cannon and braced himself.

Smoke billowed with each blast. The roaring war cry of the infantry was just audible below the booms of the cannons. Mud-splattered and outnumbered, the Continental Army sent a barrage across Buckwheat field. Clattering, the British retort brought men down either side of Hamilton. He flinched at the onslaught.

"Death or Liberty!" Hamilton's voice was hoarse from chanting, even as fear laced its way through his chest. Death or liberty; the phrase the Hearts of Oak had so lovingly embroidered on their caps. Death or liberty; the glorious cause that had woken Hamilton each morning for training before classes. Death or liberty; he didn't care which.

Desperate, the Americans fought wildly. They pressed forward, forcing the British back. And back they went, bellowing. Hearts of Oak rolled their cannon on until they held a high ground position. And then they rained iron upon the British. Not even half the continental army was here, and still they blasted the royalists into defeat. A mansion in the distance, gloriously lit by the midday sun, provided some shelter for the British as they fled. Jeers and shouts rose. Their first complete victory. The redcoats were fleeing, tails between their legs, and the Americans were cheering.

"Freedom! Freedom! Freedom! Freedom!"

A chill went down Hamilton's spine. The world was about to be turned upside down.


	2. Trenton and Princeton

At some point during the next few weeks, Hamilton got a promotion.

The frost was drawing in as December beckoned, and everything felt numb. Boots that had been heavy and hot earlier in the year could not protect his toes from the biting cold. His leather cap did little to defend his ears from the icy wind. And at some point during all of this, Hamilton was made captain of the Hearts of Oak.

He was never quite sure what happened to the man before him- frozen, wounded, captured- but he set about picking up the pieces of what that man had left behind.

Administration, to Hamilton's ever-growing dismay, was one of his talents. By the time the Americans were camping along the Delaware river, he'd made a bit of a name for himself. His artillery was splendidly kept, his men as well fed as army rations could allow them to be, and almost every one of them had boots.

By December 24th, he found himself under a concerning amount of observation from army officials. The last thing he wanted was another promotion. Nobody would employ after the war him if he hid behind reams of paper instead of fighting.

It was that bloodthirsty need for gory was what drove Hamilton across the Delaware river on Christmas Eve night. Loaded in boats, the Continental army slipped across the freezing water and towards Trenton. Hessian troops- mercenaries for the British army- were encamped at the town, and Washington hoped to surprise them with a Christmas Day attack. Oak men grumbled at the cold. Nobody wanted to be rowing across dark Delaware waters on Christmas night. Barefoot in the snow, it took all of Hamilton's power to keep his company trudging onwards, hauling cannons over the frozen ground.

The instructions were for four pieces of artillery to accompany each column of soldiers as they swarmed Trenton. Hearts of Oak had been paired with Nathaniel Greene's company, attacking the far side of town. They had the longest to walk, and dawn had already begun creeping across the sky as the troops began spreading out to surround Trenton.

It was a remarkable moment, that dawn. To Hamilton it felt like the eye of a hurricane. Stars winked away as slowly the sky began to blush pink. Trenton stirred lazily, rooftops shining in the dawn. Pale and cold, Christmas Day unfolded. And with it came a battle.

The Americans rolled forwards, an attack on four sides. Greene's troops flooded the town. The Hessians, dazed, scrambled to organise themselves. Some of them were still in taverns, and came stumbling in groups along the road. Most were half-dressed and hungover, caught completely off guard by the attack. Someone smashed a window. Shouts rose up all over the city as regiments tried to form. Hamilton's artillery kept them scattered, bombarding the town from the hill. One and a half thousand German mercenaries, dazed and surprised, milled the city. Hamilton watched as the swarm of dark coats set upon the Hessians. Victory was swift and bloodless. Only four hundred Hessians escaped.

Hamilton received an invitation to become Nathaniel Greene's aide a few days later. He dismissed the offer. The last thing he wanted was a glorified desk job.

Not a fortnight later, Washington launched a similar attack on Princeton. News had not yet reached Princeton of the Hessian defeat, and he hoped to pull off a similar attack. Hamilton was again stationed on a hill with his artillerymen, and he watched as the Continental Army moved in.

There was a shout from the foot of the hill, followed by the chatter of gunfire. A squadron, sent to burn a bridge, had encountered a redcoat patrol, and fighting had ensued. Hamilton readied his men, bracing for an attack. Hearts of Oak cannons fired onto the British, hoping to defend the infantry patrol below. Hamilton's heart wrenched as he saw the squadron fall, and fear gripped him as the British soldiers began advancing. The last thing he wanted was a bayonet fight.

Hamilton ordered the cannons to fire again upon the oncoming British. A few were taken out but onwards they came, firing on the Hearts of Oak lines. Americans fell. Hamilton's guts twisted. Death or liberty. Death or liberty.

As a child, growing up in the Caribbean, Hamilton had wished for a war. Orphaned, impoverished, he'd always believed that battle would bring him glory. He had seen injustice and poverty and he wanted to fight against it. He would fight for the future, for America. Death or liberty. Was he ready to die for it?

The clattering of hooves told Hamilton he was not alone.

"Son, may I take this from here?"

Hamilton squinted up at the rider. A tall man, framed against the rising sun like some glorious painting. Like a campfire tale, burning and angelic.

"Sir,"

The rider's toothless smile told Hamilton everything he needed to know. Today it was liberty, not death. Reinforcements came pouring after the general, and suddenly the fight was turned. George Washington rode away, a figure of myth, and the troops rallied.

The cannons rolled forwards, Hearts of Oak the centre of a charge on Princeton. Unruly and disorganised, the men rushed forwards. They swarmed upon Princeton like flies upon a carcass. Captains and generals bellowed all they could in some hopes of controlling the army. Regiments broke off, firing down streets and slaughtered the retreating British. The British began to flee, two main American forces pouring into the city from either side. The Continental Army chased the British through the streets of Princeton.

Cannons blasted along main roads, carving holes in buildings and sending shrapnel ricocheting into British lines. Infantry charged, bayonets stained with blood. Somewhere across Princeton, a fire broke out. The smoke rolled over the town, adding to the chaos. Hamilton lit a cannon, firing into a block of redcoats, more men swarmed up behind their comrades. The cannon to one side of Hamilton took out a chunk of the advancing British. Desperately, Hamilton raised his musket and tried to pick off straggling soldiers. The cannons became useless at such close range. A few more redcoats fell.

Hamilton bellowed the order to switch to bayonets, and the Americans had barely finished affixing the blades when the British were upon them. Hamilton slashed at a redcoat, and his guts spilled onto Hamilton's jacket. An Oaks soldier fell behind Hamilton, gurgling as a bayonet ripped his throat. Hamilton swatted another redcoat with the butt of his musket, and the man collapsed. Another redcoat slashed Hamilton's arm before he could stake the man. Bayonet fights were short and bloody, and by the time the Oaks had finished off the remaining royalists, they were gore-soaked and low on numbers.

At some point, orders actually began reaching the people they were supposed to. Hearts of Oak, eyes shining and bloodthirsty, rolled their cannons a little way away from Princeton to Nassau Hall. They had received instructions from Nathaniel Greene that a few of the remaining redcoats were hiding in the Hall, and Greene requested artillery assistance. Hearts of Oak rolled their wooden cannons up the hill to Nassau Hall.

The sounds of battle were distant when the Hearts of Oaks reached Nassau Hall. The orchard leading up to the hall was shady and almost pleasant. It seemed a world away from the violence roiling in Princeton below. The house, low and long, seemed at odds with everything. Imposing in its own way, but tranquil.

As they drew closer, the Hearts of Oak heard shouts coming from the hall. Greene's soldiers milled about the base of the house, occasionally shooting up through windows as they spied redcoats. Greene greeted Hamilton gruffly, and commanded his men away from the house. The Hearts of Oak rolled a cannon parallel to the door, the artillerymen preparing to fire.

The first cannon blast rung in Hamilton's ears. The swaying afternoon surrounding Nassau Hall was broken by two shots. Barricaded doors buckled under the fire, and shrapnel fell into the marbled hallway. The American troops cheered, infantry rushing forwards into the mansion. Hamilton heard shouts from inside, and not moments later he spotted a white flag at one of the windows.

Two victories in such a small space of time bolstered American morale like nothing else did. Despite the January cold, Hamilton felt warm. The rebels sang as they marched. They shared their coats and their rations. Around campfires, there whispered a hope for a new America.


	3. The Pennsylvania Post

The 25th of January saw pieces of Hamilton's destiny fit together. Ever stubborn, Hamilton rose each afternoon to sit in a hard armchair by the window and read the Pennsylvania Evening Post. At Greene's insistence, he reluctantly moved away from Washington's army to Philadelphia in order to recover from severe illness. Weak and wan-faced, Hamilton let the sunlight seep from his room, scouring the newspaper for anything about the revolution.

It was with shock that Hamilton read his own name on the page. _"Captain Alexander Hamilton… by applying to the printer of this paper, may hear something to his advantage."_ An advertisement, calling Hamilton to visit the Evening Post offices at his earliest convenience, to receive a message of utmost importance.

Hamilton sprung to his feet, seizing his jacket from where it hung by the door. He pulled it tight around him to ward off the biting cold. Stumbling out into the night, Hamilton blinked up at the stars. They seemed to wink back. He lurched down the streets, rushing to the offices of the Evening Post, his mind whirring.

The last worker, a chubby, middle aged man, was locking up the office as Hamilton arrived. Breathlessly, he explained his situation. The worker brought Hamilton into a polished wooden office.

"Mister Hamilton," the man croaked, "we received a letter addressed to you. One Robert Harrison delivered it to us, with strict instructions abouts how you were to receive it."

The man began rifling through the desk in the centre of the room, eventually pulling a dog-eared envelop from a drawer and handing it to Hamilton.

"Sorry about the condition, we understood that this letter has come a long way."

The address was in an unfamiliar hand, the stationary high quality, and the seal without emblem. Hamilton thanked the man, tucking the letter into his jacket pocket and setting back off into the night.

Back in his armchair, by the light of a tallow candle, Hamilton read the letter; wide-eyed and exhilarated. It was the invitation of a lifetime.

Captain Hamilton

 _I am sure it has not slipped your attention that you are becoming a young man of great renown. I know of your courage in stealing British cannons in uptown New York, during the formation of your company Hearts of Oak. Furthermore, I have heard accounts of your bravery during the attacks on Trenton and Princeton from Nathaniel Greene. Your men respect you, and I have been told that you make an excellent Captain._

 _I can see in you that you have a hunger for battle. Many of the soldiers amongst us do; I was just like you when I was younger. Perhaps you dislike paperwork. Perhaps this is why you have refused offers from several great generals to become their aides-de-camp. Perhaps you have fantasies of dying as a martyr for your country._

 _I must tell you, Captain Hamilton. Dying for your country is easy. Living for your country is harder, and by far more glorious._

 _I am sure that it has not slipped your attention either, that our supplies are low. The Continental Congress promised to supply us with three times as many munitions as that which we currently possess. Our army is underequipped and undertrained. We are a powder keg about to explode._

 _I need someone like you to lighten the load._

 _And that is why, with knowledge of your skills, your bravery, and the reluctance with which you would accept this offer, I ask you to join me and become my aide-de-camp. If you know anything of me you will understand that I do not offer this position lightly, and it is with great trust in your administrative skills that I ask you to join me._

 _Join me, Captain Hamilton, in living for my country._

 _Yours,_

 _George Washington._

This was his shot. This is an offer Hamilton could not refuse. Desk job or no, to be Washington's aide-de-camp was a great honour. He could not throw it away.

But yet. Death or liberty; this was neither. How would he face his fellow Hearts of Oak? They had trained together between lessons at Kings College. They had vowed to stand by each other. He was bound to them. He put his hand into his pocket and felt the tin badge he had hammered out himself. Every Oak soldier possessed one, as a symbol of their company, much like the embroidered caps. Death or liberty.

He dug out his pen and paper, and as the candle dipped low, began scrawling his reply. Death or liberty; this was neither. This was his shot.


	4. Brandywine

George Washington really was the stuff of legends. He was a towering man, older than Hamilton and three times as intimidating. He strode about camp, Hamilton scurrying behind him, paper flying like the wake of a ship. He hardly smiled, except when talking to the men. Even then, the smile was tight-lipped and forced. Nobody saw it, so in awe of The General. Washington's dinner-plate hands made for a forceful handshake, and Hamilton saw more than a few lieutenants wince in the man's iron grip. Hamilton saw Washington inspire men day in day out. This was a man who had convinced soldiers to march through the snow barefoot for him. He was an incredible man; history watched him wherever he went.

As Washington's aide-de-camp, Hamilton was responsible for drafting Washington's letters to congress and communicating with the powerful generals. He was catapulted to the centre of the revolution. He was a spider, a foot on every thread of the army, sensing vibrations and turmoil. Emissary, diplomat and counsel to Washington, Hamilton made himself indispensable.

In his new role, Hamilton grew close to John Laurens, an Englishman and another of Washington's aides. Laurens had sailed from England against his father's wishes to join the revolution. The pair got along like a house on fire. They drank together, joked together, wooed women together. They were inseparable- orchestrating the revolution from the side lines.

In the fall of 1777, Washington positioned his army along Brandywine Creek to block the British advance on Philadelphia. Hamilton begged him to run a spearheaded attack on the royalists, but Washington ignored the advice and moved his army into defensive positions. And on September 11th, it was Hamilton who was sent to deliver the news to Washington as two thousand redcoats forded the Brandywine and launched an assault.

Tentatively, he opened the flaps of Washington's pavilion. The General was hunched over a map of the river, figurines scattered across it. Hamilton explained the situation with a grim face.

There was a long moment of silence before Hamilton spoke again.

"This is not the main attack." Washington's eyes flicked up to him.

"What makes you say that?"

"With all due respect, sir, two thousand men is not very many."

Hamilton waited a beat before continuing.

"There is a patriot outpost nearby, if this really was the main attack, the redcoats would send at least three generals. Only Howe and Cornwallis lead this assault."

"Could it not be that the British have only sent two generals?"

"They are not that inconsistent."

Washington shook his head, "you are too paranoid, Hamilton."

Hamilton drew breath to argue the contrary, but Washington cut him off.

"Get my horse. I will stand with the men."

"Sir," Hamilton began, but a glare from Washington quieted him.

Hamilton and Washington sat on horseback above the battle. It was not long before Laurens rode up beside them, piecing blue eyes scanning the battle. Blocks of infantry took it in turns to fire on the British, cannons positioned behind them blasting smoke and shrapnel across the field.

Washington gave brisk orders to the two aides, and they rode out behind the troops. Mud splashed beneath his horse's hooves, but Hamilton pushed on through the smoke. He roared encouragements at the men. The cannons roared back. The air sang. Death or liberty.

Hamilton, in the end, turned out to be right. Sometime into the battle, scouts reported a British force circling behind the American troops. Hamilton's tight-lipped smile was all the victory he got as the order echoed down the line for the rebels to retreat. Cannons were abandoned, tents squashed. Hamilton turned his horse and galloped from the battlefield.

He heard gunfire as the British encircled the camp. Sunset stained the sky red. American blood stained the ground to match. There was nothing to do for the men and the supplies still at Brandywine. All Hamilton could do was spur his horse on. They could not guarantee that the British would not pursue them, and Hamilton's priority was getting the General out safe.

Hamilton stopped his horse. He could not see Washington. God, where was he? General was stubborn, but surely he knew what a symbol he was? The power he held? If the British captured Washington, that would send a clear message not just to the American army but to the world. Washington was just a man. Men can be captured. Men can be executed.

Hamilton held his breath. Laurens galloped up beside him, appearing from the crowd. The look in his eyes was panicked.

"We have to go."

Hamilton's chest wrenched, "Where is the General?"

"He will be safe," Laurens' tone said otherwise.

Hamilton hoped he was right. If the British got their hands on Washington... It didn't bear thinking about any more. He turned his horse and continued away from the battle.

The Continental Army had no cavalry units, and so the horses provided Hamilton and Laurens the speed they needed to head of the retreat and begin gathering the troops in a stretch of farmland. Laurens rode back to ensure the British were not still advancing, and Hamilton began organising men and assessing the damage. The sun sank lower and lower, but still no sign of Washington.

Losses were heavy. Hamilton reckoned they'd lost over a thousand men; and without Washington, the army became restless. Laurens returned with news that the redcoats were not pursuing them, happy to claim Philadelphia as their own. Hamilton ordered them men to set up camp as best they could, and stood watch for Washington. His mind was a whirl. What if Washington _had_ been captured? How would they lead the revolution without him? Where would they go next? Would Hamilton or Laurens step into command, or would they be forced to select a new General?

It was almost night when the Washington walked into camp, and Hamilton had never been more relieved. Washington was leading his horse by the reigns, and atop it sat a bloodied soldier. Some fallen man that Washington had rescued from the fray, broken and bruised but eyes shining. He had been saved by The General. Cheers rose from the men. Soldiers came out of their tents to applaud Washington as he limped into camp. A doctor raced forwards and took the horse, leading the wounded soldier back to their tent. Triumphant, Washington strode up to his two aides-de-camp. Washington raised an eyebrow at Hamilton's disapproving glare. Laurens punched Hamilton's arm.

"Our heroic General," Laurens grinned.

"He'll be the bloody death of me."


	5. Valley Forge

Hamilton rubbed his numb fingers together, hoping to warm them. The winter was harsh, and firewood scarce as the Americans had cleared much of the forest around their camp to build huts. Hamilton's hands were dull from the cold, but he continued to work at his desk, even though the worst days. They had a war to win.

Those months at Valley Forge tested the best of them. Washington struggled to control the troops, the soldiers themselves struggled through hours of rigorous training, and Hamilton and Laurens struggled to maintain everything. Between a German baron training the men, a general campaigning for support in France, and incoming news from spies behind British lines, the two aides-de-camp had their hands, their schedules and their plates full.

The only thing that was not full, however, was their bellies. Supplies ran lower and lower. The farms surrounding Valley Forge, their farmers reluctant to be seen supporting revolutionaries, were little help. Congress provided short of nothing for the army, and it was only through meticulous rationing that Hamilton could ensure the men got a meal each night.

Washington faced criticism as Congress scrutinised his every move. He could hardly breathe for inspectors' nit picking his strategies, his training, his conduct. Hamilton feared that Congress was scheming to replace Washington. When out of earshot of the inspectors, the General complained endlessly to his aides.

"I should like to see _them_ running the rebellion," Washington grumbled, "white-wigged sissies, the lot of them. Probably couldn't tell one end of a musket from the other."

Hamilton and Laurens exchanged glances. It wasn't worth mentioning that Washington still wore the ceremonial wig himself.

The aides-de-camp spent the evening in their cabin, retelling their lives for each other. Laurens regaled Hamilton with tales of colonial England and his father's unending crusade to see Laurens married and locked away in a manor house.

"He thinks me an embarrassment to the family," Laurens would confess, "I suppose that it is all very well to say such things, but I would like to see him do half the things we have!" He would chuckle, "he's a white-wigged sissy, I'm sure of it!"

Hamilton kept constant correspondence with his friend Marquis de Lafayette in France. The French he had learned from his late mother became invaluable as the friends discussed the possibility of re-enforcements from abroad. Lafayette was lobbying for the French army to join the continental forces, but an American victory over the British was not guaranteed and the French were reluctant to risk the Americans losing the revolution.

Forces were spread thin. In early September, Washington had sent General Benedict Arnold- their best strategist- to reinforce General Horatio Gates, who was blocking British forces' advance from Canada. It was a few months later, on a crisp October morning that Hamilton received news of their campaign.

Much of the fighting had happened near Saratoga, and a place called Freeman's Farm. Arnold had pushed an offensive strategy, and the American troops had stormed Freeman's Farm. Gates, ever one to prefer a defensive strategy, was uncertain, but bowed to Arnold's instructions, knowing that Arnold was the better strategist. Infantry poured in, and despite Gates' nerves it appeared that the colonists would be victorious until Gates' will gave way and he called a retreat. The British had claimed Freeman's Farm, and an argument broke out between Gates and Arnold. Gates, still on edge from the battle, ordered Arnold to be confined to his quarters, and planned his own attack.

Hamilton shook his head as he read the reports, they sounded like squabbling siblings, not revolutionary commanders.

 _It was not long after that I learned of Gates' new plan of attack_ – Arnold wrote- _and, thinking only of my country, I set about trying to join the fray._

The man Gates had assigned to be my guard was one of my very own, a loyal man who I was able to convince to let me out of my quarters. I recruited a small regiment of soldiers to my cause, and plotted to join the battle.

I daresay, that unit was a crucial force in the course of the battle. Through the bravery and skill of my men, I was able to capture man of the strongpoints around Freeman's Farm, and turn the tide of the battle in American favour.

Arnold's exaggerated depiction was a far cry from the disgust with which Gates wrote; both generals were adamant that they would push their story forwards and win favour with Washington.

Washington made a sour face as he read the two letters, but smiled when he finished.

"We are children playing at being men, Hamilton. There are lives on the line, yet my men squabble for glory. How can we hope to make America great if every man insists on being on top?"

Hamilton sighed, "I don't know if we can."

"It is easy for me to like the order of things, because it benefits me. But what about your average infantryman? What would he give to be George Washington?"

"Your men love you too much to revolt."

"And what happens on the day they stop loving me?"

Hamilton frowned, but said nothing.

Washington sighed, "I am sure our friends in France will want to hear of this victory."

"Sir, will you not reprimand the generals?"

"Certainly. However, a defeat like this will affect the British greatly, we must monopolise on this. Write to your friend Lafayette. This news will hearten him greatly and he may be able to win us favour with the French officials."

Hamilton nodded.

It was late winter by the time the Lafayette arrived. The Americans came out of their huts to watch them, drills stopped as men followed the column of French. Thousands of them, blue clad and glorious, helmets shining in the midday son. Trained soldiers with banners and fierce grins, they came marching into Valley Forge. From Washington's porch on the hill, Hamilton looked out on the vast encampment of soldiers. Bayonets gleaming, dinners roasting. Happy, glorious, free.

A chill ran down Hamilton's spine. The world was about to be turned upside down.


End file.
